


No Ideal

by krisherdown



Series: The Unholy trilogy [3]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krisherdown/pseuds/krisherdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Defeating the most important person is difficult. Especially when it means so much to the loser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Ideal

**Author's Note:**

> Revolves around their matchup in the second round of 2008 French Open.

You aren't aware of the draw at first. Your family is in town as you play Poertschach. It's a week of sightseeing while bonding with your parents.

 

You didn't even realize he wasn't responding. It was two days and, while you'd emailed him and gotten no response, it was _two days_. No reason for concern.

 

Once you know about the draw, you try not to let on there's anything weird as you've got a crowd around at that moment.

 

You send a short text message, stating 'good luck at fo.' No response.

 

From the years of Davis Cup with him, you know there are times he's in a zone. No distractions. You're the enemy he desperately needs to conquer. It's nothing personal, you tell yourself. Yet it makes you wonder _how_ personal he would make it.

 

After the text, you leave it alone. Your paths don't cross before the start of the tournament. You keep hearing questions about the impending matchup so he stays on your mind whether you want that distraction or not.

 

Mikhail is the first to say something other than that and it's not good. "Dima is playing scout for him."

 

You chuckle, but then ask, "Anything useful?"

 

"Marat asked him if he's ever won an important match in a major in his life. That worked pretty well in the whole shutting up thing." Mikhail is laughing at the memory while you realize that this has gotten serious.

 

* * * * * 

 

The last time the two of you had talked on the phone, Marat was already in a pessimistic mood. 

 

You said that he'd been playing well lately. He said that it didn't count if it wasn't at a Grand Slam.

 

You said you were convinced that he'd break out of the slump, upsetting a top seed. He said that he'd draw Nadal first round.

 

You said that it would be beautiful to see the sights of Paris in between matches. He said that he'd be able to start training in London early this year.

 

You said that he could be the story of the championships by making it deep in the draw. He said it would be a good tournament if he made it to the third round.

 

So the compromise at the end of the talk had been the 3rd Round. Fair enough.

 

* * * * *

 

You aren't sure if the avoiding is deliberate or necessary. Concentration is of utmost importance. You can't be thinking of the opponent on a personal level.

 

_Especially_ because you know what it would mean to him.

 

No. Just another opponent. A multiple Grand Slam winner, former number one who suffers from inconsistency and his own mind.

 

It sounds cruel to your ears.

 

* * * * *

 

Ultimately, you win. He's in game mode on the court after the match so you can't gauge how it's affected him. Frustrated - yes, but that's common (unfortunately _, too_ common). Racket throwing, yelling at himself - check, check, nothing out of the norm.  
  
Nonetheless, that night you play it cautious. You drag Mikhail with you to his floor. If asked by anyone else, you'll claim it's a Davis Cup thing. They'll nod in understanding, no need to say any more.

 

Right idea but since Mikhail's voice carries, Marat is out of the room before he even finishes speaking. Marat plays along, grabbing Mikhail in an easygoing chokehold to amuse the passersby.

 

Once they're gone, he lets go and turns Mikhail around. He knows you're right there as he says, "I'm going early to London. You gonna be there?"

 

Mikhail eyes both of you with caution then replies, "Nah. Germany detour."

 

"Right. Well, I'll still see you in a few weeks anyway." You smell liquor and you know it's not vodka. He's blocking any view into the room and daring you to say anything about it.

 

"Are you checking out the nightlife here before you leave?" Good thing Mikhail keeping up the jovial conversation since the staring contest is anything but.

 

"Way ahead of you. That's the benefit of a second round exit. The partying starts earlier."

 

You've had enough of it and, rather than wait for Mikhail to get an opening to leave, you shove Marat back into his hotel room. He's taken by surprise by the action so the force actually gets him there and you can close the door.

 

"Enough of the game." You take a glance around and see nobody else in the room. "What are you trying to accomplish?"

 

"Does it really matter?"

 

"What? Yes, it matters. Was that show for him or for me?"

 

Marat walks over to the lounge chair and plops down. "You don't need to see this." The nearly empty bottle on the floor, its writing in Spanish. Other than tequila, you don't remember the drinks. But tequila is definitely a strong one, especially if alone.

 

You try to start the conversation he's ducking. "It was inevitable that we'd face each other eventually."

 

"That's _not_ what this is about!" Marat snaps, jumping off the chair. His voice is a growl when he adds, "I'm not fucking Andy Roddick and you're not Roger Federer." 

 

"Uh, no, I'm not Roger." You hope to laugh about this remark later but you fear that now.

 

"He's the one who fucking goes down this path every time Roger kicks his ass on the court. But he's not here when it's the other way around. Fucking figures."

 

"You mean that Andy goes to you after losing to Roger?"

 

Any of the anger that had been there has drained from him. He is downright calm when he explains, "He did. Until last year's US Open when I kicked him out. My Rule Number 1 is you'd better call out the right name." He gives a wistful grin, then settles back in the chair, his eyes finally focusing on you. "I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at me for not giving a better battle."

 

"Some days it's just not there."

 

"After I threw Andy out, I started thinking. He'd rile me up every time after these get-togethers. I guess I was starting to have problems on the court but it was a phase. Figured I'd just try to calm down in my personal life, so all of the crazy antics on the court were just that. That's when I started trying to find a good example. Sure, there's Roger, who'd always made offers. I was honored but with the Andy thing, that was just too damn weird. Then I started paying attention to your practice sessions." He throws his hands in the air. "I don't think this getting in tune with nature and adopting a Zen-like attitude is helping."

 

"You're saying that I'm hurting your game?"

 

"Probably but I'm not sure I care." He stares at the bottle. "This isn't good."

 

You sit on the arm of the chair. It's habit that leads your hand to play with his hair. It's habit that has Marat leaning into the touch. "It's a slump. You don't have to be calm. That's not the guy that everyone on the tour is attracted toward. They want the guy who throws rackets into the wall. That makes mothers want to lock up their daughters, then try for you themselves. That tells a talk show host he drinks vodka with every meal. _That's_ the real you."

 

Marat looks up at you like you'd grown a second head. Then he begins laughing, burying his head in his hands. "I should have replied to you when I found out the draw. I'm not even sure what result I was hoping for from the match. It does seem stupid."

 

You can't help but point out, "Roddick isn't even in Paris. What would you have done if he'd hopped a flight out here and was waiting for you after the match?"

 

He pretends to be serious in considering the possibility. "That would depend. If he had on the cowboy hat and _just_ the cowboy hat, it would be hard to resist. He's probably in London so I _can_ start my practice session early. Roger won't be around, as he's still here then will be playing the other grass tournament."

 

You try to keep the tone going. "Good thing you lost early then. It will give you more time with him."

 

"Yeah, but that's not going to work because while you're pretending _now_ it doesn't matter, you're really thinking of losing next round so you can use your frequent flier miles to make a stop in London and tell off Roddick." He suddenly grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his lap. "You can't pull that indifferent tone on me. That's how you've fooled everyone else into thinking you're this sullen, serious guy. When I know you're full of it. I admit it would be funny to see Roddick's reaction to you being jealous." He nestles his chin on your shoulder, feather-like kisses along your neck.

 

"I could just tell him I'm Roger."  You didn't see the pillow on the other side of him until it hit you square in the face.  It's in that odd moment that you no longer have anything to worry about.


End file.
